This is a Kindness
by Jimi Keys
Summary: He leaves them alone and he tells himself it's because Rory deserves to be with her after all they've been through, but really, he just can't bear to look at her. ... Set during "The Girl Who Waited" episode. Doctor's POV.
1. Chapter 1

_Don't be alarmed, this is a kindness…_

…

It's the look on her face that will haunt him for a long, long time. There have been so many faces, some more vivid than others, amalgams of expressions—eyes, noses, mouths, maws, beaks—flitting through his dusty, half-remembered memories like an old silent film going forwards and backwards too quick for his eyes and attention span to sit still and really focus, and they have been burned into his retinas throughout the 900 years of his old, old life. But the Doctor thinks it'll be Amy's look of unsurprised betrayal that will keep him up at night for a long time, long after she's finally left him for that ordinary apple-pie life waiting patiently for her in Leadworth, and she won't loose any sleep over it, none at all, he thinks. None of his companions ever do, not really, he hopes.

His gaze develops a tunnel vision when he looks at her, Amy, his Amelia Pond, The Girl Who Waited, all grown up and as hard as ice but still somehow the same fiery, willful redhead tucked away in his TARDIS, unconscious and swathed in his coat, protected and safe and just as real. The future Amy throws her weapons aside and sprints for the TARDIS, because she _knows—_even after 36 years, she knows the Doctor and she knows what he is about to do, and even before she had agreed to help Rory and her younger self, she had known it was hopeless all along.

The Doctor looks at her, eyes as wide as saucers, throat and lips going dry. It's a truly helpless look, and because he's so phenomenally self-deprecating the sting of words like "What's the point of you?" fill the spaces of his mind when he sees her running towards him, as hurt and helpless as _he_ is in that very moment. But he forces himself to fight the "I don't want to!" screaming and hammering inside his hearts. He hopes that she can see how sorry he is before he closes the TARDIS doors, how much this will haunt him, how he'll suffer every time he looks at her now, and if she truly hated him then at least she'd have that.

"I'm sorry," He mutters, and it's almost a whisper because he barely trusts his own voice now.

Amy's punching and shaking and screaming outside the TARDIS, "Doctor! Doctor, _I trusted you_!"

The Doctor closes his eyes and tells himself, "No. No, she's not real." Except he knows that is not true, not really. But he has to believe it,_ needs_ to. If he does not, he knows he could not, _would not_ do this to her, and then the paradox would consume them all, they'd all die, and everything leading up to this point would be for nothing. Not for the first time, he has to choose the lesser of two evils.

He'll fix this, he tells himself. The younger Amy is safe in the TARDIS, and once they've gotten far away from this damnable timeline, the Amy that had suffered 36 years alone, without her husband and without _him_, would have never existed, never have suffered at all. That's the best he can do, and he'll hate himself for it in the long run, but that isn't something new.

It's always the Doctor that has to make the hard decisions, the kind that _lesser men_ wouldn't and couldn't. It's the Doctor that has to live with the darkness and the guilt underneath the pretense of charming quirks and good cheer and the occasional plucky feats of heroism, while everyone else can shrug it off and be relatively okay and get their happily ever after. All the while, he's alone, with nothing but the TARDIS and centuries worth of guilt in his hearts piling up with each so-called adventure.

Rory protests, of course, because he doesn't understand, he can't fathom these kinds of decisions, he's only human, the infernal bleeding-heart race. But the Doctor has lived a little over 900 years and he's done this before, and it almost gets a little easier each time but no, that's a lie, too. This is his life, he's the one that stands up and makes a decision because nobody else will.

He makes Rory understand by putting him in his shoes and making him choose, because the Doctor is just the Doctor and Rory is her husband and the Doctor has resigned himself to that, and because they are Amy's men, they have to make this decision together now, somehow. Only, the Doctor's already made up his mind and Rory will never understand, never.

The Doctor takes Rory's hands and places them over the silver locks of the TARDIS doors anyway.

"This isn't fair. You're turning me into _you_," Rory says, as if that's the worst thing he could ever possibly become and the Doctor doesn't blame him. The Doctor has always vaguely suspected that Rory resented him, but it was never made more apparent now. It's nothing compared to how much the Doctor resents himself, now and then and forever, it seems, so the Doctor doesn't let the sting of those words linger too long before he's off to do what he must, his hearts pounding and his movements frantic, urgent, _frightened_.

Quickly, he sprints off to the controls and pretends he doesn't hear them pour their hearts out to each other because it just doesn't help, it really doesn't. His hands are shaking as they furiously turn levers and knobs and switches, and even the TARDIS seems to protest because the old girl's controls don't cooperate as well as they should, _they're not leaving fast enough_. He just wants to be gone.

Even in the end Amy makes the decision for him.

The Doctor feels no relief when it's over even as he's offering Amy, smooth-faced and young and not so hard-hearted, a familiar self-satisfied smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, and he's sticking out his tongue at her like a child for no reason, really, except to look more chipper than he really felt. She smiles in response and it's so sincere, he almost thinks he can cope with what he's done, almost.

He leaves them alone and he tells himself it's because Rory deserves to be with her after all they've been through, but really, he just can't bear to look at her.

…

* * *

><p><strong>Acknowledgements:<strong>

First Doctor Who fic ever, and it's really depressing. :C It's basically a telling of what I thought, or rather, what I _saw_ going on in the Doctor's head during the last few minutes of "The Girl Who Waited". It's kind of done from memory, though, so I'm not entirely sure if the dialogue or scenes accurate.

What, too angsty? I wanted to sort of develop Eleven's deeply hidden self-loathing, but maybe I was being a little overdramatic. Lemme know. I'd really appreciate feedback and constructive criticism, especially character-wise, since this is my first DW fic ever. Pretty please with fish fingers and custard on top?

Incidentally, I love _Eleven x Amy_. I ship it like FedEx. I will go down with this ship because it's beautiful and the chemistry was perfect and it's worth it and season 5 was the best. But damn it all if season 6 isn't making their relationship, even their platonic one, practically nonexistent. ;n; Moffat, y u do dis?


	2. Epilogue

…

The proverbial storm is over, but he doesn't think the quiet is any better, it only makes the severity of his choices that much more raw—like a wound which won't heal, so he'll just have to get use to it. It isn't the first time.

He hasn't even made it three yards out of the bridge before he hears the familiar inquiry, "Doctor?"

The Doctor recognizes her voice bouncing off the TARDIS corridors and flinches, but he pretends he doesn't hear her, she doesn't see him, and scratches the back of his head so he can avoid looking at her eyes.

Amy is coming up behind him, shuffling quickly to catch up to his long sweeping strides, and he feels more than hears her coming closer, her shoes thump-thump-thumping against the polished metal floors, but it's her presence he's become most familiar with. She's been on his TARDIS longer than any of his companions (or perhaps it just _feels_ that way) and it's almost ridiculous how effortlessly he's come to tell whenever she's near without even having to look.

He doesn't want to but he whips around to face her anyway, his feet gracefully twisting about, a theatrical flail to the way he moves. His flair for the dramatic is such a well played ruse, such a clever diversion, that it almost fools him, too.

And when he's facing her, his hands are briefly outstretched like the ringleader of a circus welcoming his audience, and she has to take a step back to avoid crashing her nose against his collarbone, he's so fast. His coat is still tucked over her shoulders, and she briefly tugs the lapels closer around herself to keep it from slipping off as she jerks back to avoid his sweeping hand gestures.

A deceptively jolly smile is prepared and ready for her.

"Pond! Amy! Amelia. What can I do for you on this fine…?" The Doctor's face scrunches up a little, almost puzzled, and then he brings his arm up to check the time on his wristwatch, only to realize that—oh, that's right, he doesn't really own a wristwatch. _A__ conundrum_, he thinks fleetingly, but deliberately, his expression channeling the thought with perfect accuracy. He likes to make others think his mind is a convoluted kaleidoscope of thoughts and lifetimes and sudden bursts of brilliance, and it _is_, sort of, but it is also very old, strategic and decisive, one step ahead of the present—and very dangerous, when he wants it to be.

"Doctor," Amy huffs, but there's a hint of laughter in her voice. She's looking up at him with exasperation, but also relief. "Where are you going?"

The Doctor blinks, his thin brows rising up to crinkle his forehead, and he almost looks naïve in his pretense of mild confusion. He gestures behind him halfheartedly and mumbles, "Sorry, did I not make that obvious? I'm going… well… wherever you and Rory aren't, I suppose. You two need your _alone __time_, after all, happy couple that you are!" Awkwardly, delicately, he punches her arm in a playful, hopefully encouraging manner. He has gotten very good at pretending to be happy for them, he almost believes he is. But the reality is he can not be happy knowing how much he has essentially ruined her life—it said so in the accusatory look on Rory's face, all resentment and jealousy and territorial human nature. "This has been _quite_ a long day for all of us…or, I suppose, it's been a week for you, so…" He frowns, but it's brief and he remembers to purse his lips and twist it into a proper smile, "Yeah. Right. Sorry about that then."

There's a brief instant where he wonders if she'll know just how sorry he truly is, for everything, all the time, but she just smiles at him. She forgives him because it has only been a week, after all, and he has saved her life again, he was there for her, again, and she's the same mad, impossible Amy Pond that never had 36 years to grow to resent him.

When she smiles, the apples of her cheeks are prominent and smooth underneath the warm golden light pooling into the corridor from the bridge of the TARDIS. She's so achingly young and so beautiful, because he's so glad she's here and she's safe. He smiles, and while it doesn't quite reach his eyes, it's _real _this time.

The warm quirk of his lips loses a bit of its substance when he feels the urge to hold her and press kisses to her forehead, because those days feel like such a long time ago, just another old memory, and he's never missed it as much as he does now. He doesn't know why he does not just bring his arms around her and hold her tight against him, because he really ought to, he's so relieved, but there's also the sharp sting in his chest that holds him back, makes him feel so unworthy of even that.

There was a girl out there somewhere with her red hair and her eyes, her face and memories. She had waited 36 years for him, another girl who waited, another Amelia Pond he had let down, ruined, and he had shut the door in her face and essentially left her to die. It's not something he will just forget, not for a long time. He won't let himself forget, the self-deprecating fool. But the young, vivid Amy Pond before him now almost makes him want to.

And then Amy asks, "What happened, Doctor? Rory doesn't want to talk about it and, well; the whole… _experience_ is getting a bit hazy, now that I think about it." The words roll off her tongue haltingly, with just a touch of her Scottish accent, but she's still having trouble admitting it, as if the very idea seems unreal somehow. Amy had barely recognized her older self, and even now the memory of that alternate future is fading steadily, like the space between sleep and consciousness.

"Right. Side affect from direct contact with the paradox," the Doctor mutters, as if to himself. He doesn't look at her on purpose. "You still remember, though I suspect only vaguely. Seeing as the paradox doesn't essentially exist anymore, it'll only feel like an old memory at best. Eventually neither you nor Rory will remember much of this at all, and whatever you _do_ remember will just be tucked away in a corner of your mind like… moth balls, or nostalgia. Oh, what do humans call it? There's a word—ah, yes: posttraumatic amnesia. Except without the bit about head injuries, though I don't suppose we should rule that out, all things considered…"

He tilts his head, leans forward almost precariously to examine her, as if expecting a bruise to suddenly manifest upon her forehead. Golden freckles dust over smooth white skin. Red, red lips. _So__ achingly __young_, he thinks. _Flawless._ _Safe_. He almost forgot she has tiny flecks of amber in her green eyes.

The Doctor has never been particularly familiar with the concept of personal space, even though he has always made a point to keep her at arm's length in the presence of Rory. Amy doesn't back away, she isn't even uncomfortable. But all the same, she looks at him with an arched brow and her accent is thicker when she emphasizes, "_Doctor_, get to the point while I'm still young, please?"

He stiffens and withdraws abruptly, and Amy blinks rapidly because for a moment the long fringe of his hair brushes her face with the motion. But then she sees his expression.

The Doctor would occasionally explain, in quick convoluted words she can just barely comprehend even now, how emotions can be so powerful they would shoot through billions of light-years and stars and even dimensional rifts in time and space, and occasionally they would be powerful enough to reach the TARDIS. That was how they had found little George. And perhaps that was how he had found Amelia Pond.

She wonders who answers the Doctor's prayers, but she doesn't like to linger on that train of thought, afraid of the answer or lack thereof. The look on his face scares her, shoots a sense of trepidation and worry up her spine because it is a look of such palpable hurt, it is almost tangible. The TARDIS shudders slightly; the golden lights flooding the corridor flicker and turns blue. The old girl feels it, too, like a sharp jerk through her circuitry.

"Doctor?" She feels this urge to bring her fingers up to touch him, a gesture of comfort, but he doesn't even let her try.

"Oh." The Doctor blurts, taking a tiny step back, "Right." Absentmindedly, he blinks and scratches his cheek, and for all intents and purposes he looks as if he's forgotten his train of thought. He looks at the space over her shoulder and acts as if he has only just realized she has been standing in front of him this whole time.

She almost believes she had just imagined being witness to such vulnerability, but Amy Pond will not be fooled so easily, not this one. "Doctor," She begins, carefully, "What happened to her?" And she says _her_ because Amy can not bring herself to associate the hard-hearted red-haired warrior woman with herself, doesn't want to. She can't. It's too bizarre and wrong and she can't quite recall her older self's face anymore, but she remembers how hateful and bitter she was, so old and so very sad.

The Doctor smiles as if he has read her mind, though she thinks it looks so sad and resigned in the blue light. "Come now, Amy. She's you. She's you if I had been too late to save you, and I was, and wasn't, in a way. That's the thing about bloody paradoxes; it's a bit complicated to go into detail without going into a weeklong lecture. Involves all sorts of wibbly-wobbly, timey whimey… stuff. Quantum physics, parallel universes, all that boring theoretical gibberish. But the important thing is you're here now, time is essentially rewritten, and you're safe. So that version of you, she doesn't exist anymore. Technically, she never had, though I'd use the phrase rather loosely, considering…"

The Doctor remembers the look on her wizened face, and thinks that that Amy still exists, will always exist, in his memories and in his nightmares and in the stew of his own confined self-rage.

Amy tries to absorb this information with a leveled head, but the revelation is overwhelming and she feels something like discomfort twist inside her chest. "You lied to m—_her_."

"I did," He admits without hesitation, and his smile is gone, his expression is unfathomable now—but his eyes, oh his eyes are thick with an inexplicable emotion that almost looks like sadness, except it's older and darker than that. It's worse.

He wants to avoid this conversation entirely, pretend to move on as if the last few hours, week, 36 years had been any other adventure wherein they all got out relatively unscathed, but he doesn't think he can handle lying to her face a second time. He thinks he owes it to her.

She just stares at him, and her expression is unfathomable. He expects her to hate him, to shout and scream and call him horrible names—he almost hopes so. He remembers the day with the Dream Lord, the darkness in him personified and given a name. He remembers how her voice had been so impassive and cold when she'd said, "Then what is the point of you?" He doesn't want that. Anything but that.

"Why?"

The Doctor looks up, and blinks for a while, unsure if he heard her. "What?"

Amy folds her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrow at him almost cynically, "Why? And it better be a _good_ reason. In _English_, please."

"I…" He feels genuinely baffled and it's stunning. He hasn't felt like this in a long time. "The TARDIS can't hold two Amy's, not from such severely different time streams. It creates an alternate reality! And alternate realities are very not good. Essentially impossible._Mad_. But I had to fix it; I _had_ to bring you back, Amy, before I was too late. I knew I could do it. I've rebooted all of time and space for you, fixed a crack in the universe, turned away armies, so breaking a few fundamental laws of said time and space does not necessarily compare. Only I couldn't bring both of you. To save you both I had to forsake one, and, um, it's just complicated Wibbly Wobbly—"

"Timey Whimey stuff, I know," Amy interjects briefly, but her voice is suddenly soft.

The Doctor coyly looks away as if he has been scolded. He's rambling and he knows it. "I didn't lie, not really. You are here, and you're safe. You never had to wait 36 years; you never had to grow old and alone in that place. I'd never let that happen, not deliberately, not ever. I would exhaust all possible alternatives before I'd ever let that happen, Amy. You need to know that. I—"

"Doctor," Amy interrupts him, her brows furrowing, "Are you trying to apologize?"

"Again. Yeah. Properly this time." The Doctor admits, and he smiles almost painfully.

"I knew you wouldn't leave me," She insists, and the Doctor's gaze rises to meet hers like a magnet. Her eyes are smoldering, she's insulted that he can even think of such a thing. "I didn't doubt it for a second."

He smiles crookedly, but it's mirthless and without hope. "Yes you did, or you _had_."

"No," Amy retorts almost irritably, stepping closer to him. "That was the other Amy. _This_ Amy doesn't. Never has, never will. I'm not her, Doctor. Don't you dare apologize for something that has technically never happened. You saved me, you and Rory. End of."

The Doctor looks at her, and his face is expressionless but his eyes are heartbreaking. She has so much faith in him, it is unwavering and impossible. She is impossible. He doesn't know whether he wants to believe her, or make her see that he doesn't deserve her trust.

He wants to cup his hands around her face and stroke it reassuringly, but he curls his wistful fingers and shoves them into his trouser's pockets instead. "No, Amy. It's not that simple. Not with me. You should know that by now."

"It's not fair," Amy says suddenly, her voice thick with emotion and that stubborn Scottish accent. She looks helpless, almost angry at herself. "You'll remember it all, I know you will. But _we_ won't. You'll have to live with it, with leaving her… leaving _me_, the other me. And the worst part is you won't even let me make it okay!" She punches him halfheartedly in the chest, pulling her fist back and rubbing her sore knuckles, "You stupid bloody idiot!"

She glares at him when all the Doctor does is smile fondly at her. Mad, impossible Amy Pond. He tends to forget how well she knows him. It's almost comforting.

He's in too deep. It's been a twinge niggling in the corners of his mind for a long time, how _attached_ he's gotten to her, and he usually disregards it because he doesn't like that reproachful train of thought, doesn't like to think that being so fond of his Amelia Pond is wrong. But he knows better. He's always known. She isn't his to keep, and he's been keeping her here much too long.

He pushes that train of thought away, holds it off—whether it is because he's just selfish or the notion simply hurts him is unclear. He just runs. He's gotten very good at it, after all.

The Doctor smiles. "At least let me make it up to you, eh?"

"Not this again." Amy rolls her eyes. "There's nothing to make up for!"

"Just one trip! It'll be grand, Amy, I promise." He taps his fingertip lightly over the tip of her nose, and before she realizes it he's taking her hand and bounding off into the main control room. "Ravens Scala! The people there are over sixty feet tall; you'd have to ride a hot air balloon just to look them in the eyes!"

He lets her hand go as soon as Rory lifts his head off of his hands to look at them.

…

* * *

><p><strong>Acknowledgments:<strong>

Characters don't belong to me, BBC owns them.

I wrote this as a kind of sequel to "This is A Kindness". Quite literally, this story takes place immediately after "This is A Kindness". I wrote this and was halfway done before The God Complex even aired, so I was kind of a pleasantly surprised when it was sort of compatible, so I just sort of tied it in at the end. I'm not really happy with this, not sure if it's any good, I dunno. Let me know what you think, I would forever appreciate it. :'D

Review?


End file.
